and cracked it like the jolting gunshot leaving a glass tiny
shooting star that doesn’t obstruct or abstract her vision
but everywhere she drives, one lonely spark in a constellation.
(You know, like if Orion wore a polished buckle but not a whole belt,
and showed it off while she was trying to merge lanes.)
All these years later, she still sees you,
the elected, alleged, beloved assassin,
like fireworks, love made on a frameless mattress,
the two seconds she took to amend.